


the day general hux died

by artmitagehux



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon Divergence - Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Gen, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artmitagehux/pseuds/artmitagehux
Summary: This is the story of how Hux, the esteemed General of the First Order, died—and how Armitage lived on.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	the day general hux died

**Author's Note:**

> if you’re here, you’re probably just as pissed about how hux was treated in TROS as i am. so here's a bit of a fix-it, and hopefully i've provided that amazing bastard man with the happy ending he deserves. let me know what you think !!

Hux had picked up the habit of wearing a bulletproof vest under his First Order uniform from the minute he met Allegiant General Pryde. 

Stiff and arrogant, the man reminded him every bit of Grand Moff Tarkin—based off what he’d heard about the late commander, at least. Except, Enric Pryde wasn’t Tarkin, and the two disliked each other from the moment Hux had been ordered to work alongside him in the ship Pryde commanded, the _Steadfast._

It wasn’t just the fact that Pryde thought Hux below him in rank (which was true, but the two worked so often together that it hardly felt that way at all), or the snide remarks he often passed about him during meetings with the ever-insufferable Kylo Ren (which happened during each one without fail) or the petty shoulders he gave him in the middle of the practically mile-wide corridors of the ship (which was silly and childish, in his opinion, for a grown man of 62 years).

Call it a hunch—or rather, a feeling—but Hux only trusted Pryde about as far as he could shoot the man with a Death Star superlaser. Ever since the first wooden handshake, the first cold nod, Hux had had a Quantum-crystalline mesh-lined vest commissioned in secret and began to don it underneath his uniform each day. 

The vest was cold and not made for long-term wear, but it was surely worlds warmer and more comfortable than a blast from a SE-44C. That was a trade-off that Hux was willing to make.

And that was the trade-off that saved his life.

“...We’ve found our spy.”

Hux heard the tail-end of Pryde’s clipped, chilly accent as he laid on the floor, too stunned to move an inch. He’d been standing behind the Allegiant General just moments ago, telling him the lie he’d practised on the way to the _Steadfast’s_ command bridge—

—And the next thing he knew, the business end of Pryde’s blaster had been pointed right at his chest, followed by a flash of red; a short, echoing blast _,_ then pain—lots of it.

It took every inch of nerve in his body to remain still on the cold floor of the bridge surrounded, humiliatingly, by the ship’s crew, but Hux managed to do it. He kept his eyes closed, trying to ignore the deep ache that spread through him from the force of the blow. His left leg hurt even more, thanks to FN-2187, but at least the bulletproof vest had done its job: no additional harm had been done, though it certainly felt that way.

Oh well. It was better than bleeding out on the floor. _What a miserable way to go,_ Hux thought. 

There was a moment of shocked silence that followed the Allegiant General’s command, then the bridge crew, efficient and well-disciplined as ever, fell right back into the rhythm that always moved the First Order forward. 

“Yes, Allegiant General,” Hux heard his Lieutenant say. Moments later, the clicking sound of her boots against the floor passed his ear. He could’ve sworn to Snoke that she paused to look at him for just the slightest second. He wished he could open his eyes, see her expression—maybe it was one of triumph, maybe it was pity—but then her footsteps retreated past him, and unfamiliar hands wrapped themselves around his arms and started to bodily drag him across the floor.

Now, this was _highly_ humiliating and disrespectful—but Hux reminded himself that he was, in the bridge crew’s eyes at least, dead. It no longer mattered what they thought of him. And he would now be forever free of the Allegiant General’s degrading words, snide remarks and jabs.

All he had to do now was to escape the First and Final Order. Escape, and he would be free: free to start his life over, free to do what he pleased.

The hands—two pairs, and, judging by the stomping strides their owners made, belonged to a pair of stormtroopers—continued to drag him across the ground, and Hux risked a glance through his eyelashes. They were in the corridor that led to the bridge now, heading in the opposite direction. Hux decided he would wait until the coast was fully clear—and besides, his leg still felt too weak to support him just yet. _That damned FN-2187._

The troopers continued to drag his limp form across the spotless floors, presumably in the direction of one of the ship’s many, many trash compactors (who the hell designed star destroyers to have so many?). Hux waited until their pace slowed, and then he sprung to life.

His first instinct was to grab one of the blasters that hung loosely in their hands. Then the feeling returned, and Hux decided that _maybe_ he didn’t have to go the killing route. He’d already killed three perfectly good troopers today and wasn’t keen on adding to that number. Hux wasn’t a man of religion, but he knew his hands were blood-stained enough that he’d be far from entitled to a good afterlife—but all the more reason to escape _this_ life while breath still resided in his lungs.

He wrenched his arm from the left trooper’s grip. He made a sound of surprise and his huge helmeted head turned to look down at Hux. 

“General Hux, sir!” The trooper’s voice sounded pitchy and breathless. “You’re—you’re alive!”

Hux sat up and dusted himself off. “Of course I’m alive, RD-6160,” He snapped, scowling in an attempt to look and sound dignified. “That incident back there was merely a distraction. I’m perfectly alright.”

Hux didn’t need to see the trooper’s expression to know that it was one of immense doubt.

“Let me help you up, sir,” The other trooper said quickly. 

“That would be helpful,” He answered, his tone dry.

Despite the humiliation Hux had already suffered, he allowed RD-6160 and ST-3128 to help him back onto his feet (his leg still ached, after all). When they stepped back, Hux nodded to both of them and received respectful salutes in return. 

A bubble of pride swelled in his chest to see that his title still inspired loyalty and a sense of duty; it was his title-given right, of course, but Pryde’s presence often overshadowed it when the two worked together. That, perhaps, was another reason why he disliked the man so much. Hux was no longer _the_ General, the one who held all the command and respect, the moment Pryde entered the room. After that, it was just _Allegiant General_ this and _Allegiant General_ that, and Hux would dissolve into the shadows, forgotten.

The troopers seemed at a loss for what to do next. He straightened his uniform and looked at both of them. “You will not tell anyone, especially the Allegiant General, that this ever happened. As far as you are concerned,” Hux tried to meet ST-3128’s gaze through his helmet lens. “You carried out your orders to remove me from the ship. You won't be seeing me from this day henceforth. Dismissed.”

There was a pause. Then ST spoke up. “We carried out our orders to remove you from the ship,” He repeated in a monotone. “We won't be seeing you from this day henceforth.”

Hux frowned. A simple “Yes, sir” would have sufficed, but he supposed that was acceptable: if this was his last order as General of the First Order, it felt satisfying to have it followed to the tiniest detail. He nodded at both of them and turned in the opposite direction, beginning a brisk walk down the corridor. Yet another step closer to freedom.

Obtaining a TIE fighter was almost too simple: it’s no wonder that FN-2187 so easily stole one and escaped then, Hux realised as he took hold of the ship’s controls. Of course, he hadn’t exactly _stolen_ it—news that the General was supposed to be deceased hadn’t yet spread beyond the bridge of the _Steadfast_ , and so it was easy to convince a TIE pilot that Hux required the use of his starfighter. 

Hux’s heart thrummed in his chest as the engine fired up. He was so close to freedom. Part of him regretted that he would not be returning to his quarters later that day, or that he would never get to walk down the bridge of a star destroyer ever again. But a larger (and smarter) part of him knew that these were merely feelings: feelings that would burn away under the sun of a much safer, much warmer planet. 

No looking back, then. And no regrets, either. 

The roar of the engine grew and filled the small space of the cockpit. Hux regretted not borrowing the pilot’s helmet too. 

Well, maybe just _one_ regret.

He gripped the control wheel tightly, trying to ignore the vibrating in his teeth as the fighter lifted off the ground. Hux then manoeuvred the TIE out of the hangar and into the dark expanse of space. No one stopped him; no one even spotted him. 

Just like that, General Armitage Hux of the First Order was dead.

* * *

“Your iced tarine tea, sir.” 

Armitage looked up from his book just as the SE8 droid placed a tall glass on his table.

“Thank you,” He said curtly.

The droid dipped its shiny black head and moved away to serve another patron.

Reaching for the glass, Armitage directed his gaze to the endless stretch of turquoise sea of which he currently had a front-row seat. Cantonica was particularly beautiful this time of year, and there was no better place to enjoy the views the planet had to offer than in Canto City. (Not Canto Bight, no: that place was too messy, and Armitage never enjoyed gambling.) 

Armitage took a sip, then he leaned back in his deck chair and sighed, contentment settling in his belly, then stretched his legs out. 

The leg on which he'd been shot turned out unscarred; the injury had been easily taken care of by medic droids when he landed in Cantonica a complete year ago. No questions had been asked except for a name by which he could be addressed. 

“Armitage,” He’d said. “Just Armitage.” 

Which was then followed by the embarrassing need to clarify to the immigration officer that no _,_ his name was not Just Armitage, it was _just_ Armitage. No last name. The officer had given him a strange look, but said nothing once he was passed a sack of credits under the counter.

From that day forth, he was Armitage, citizen of Cantonica. 

Working under the First Order meant he had a comfortable amount of money in his savings, and so he’d been able to live a life of comfort so far. He had a house down the beach from the bar. Armitage had relaxed his appearance as well: he’d let his facial hair grow out, even allowed his hair to creep just a little over his ears. 

Here in Cantonica, days were slow. Easy. Peaceful. The only chaos that ever occurred was of the tides crashing against the rocks, or the occasional thunderstorms that would descend on the planet during the monsoon season. The rest of his days were filled with books, music, and bitter tarine tea—lots of it.

Today was one of those days. Armitage continued to stare at the waves and let himself be lulled into a daze. He never could do that during his days on the _Finalizer_ : he was often too worried about waking to a blaster pressed to his head, or to news that the insufferable Kylo Ren had destroyed yet another invaluable piece of equipment. 

Hmm. Kylo Ren. _Ben Solo_. Armitage wondered what the man was up to these days. 

Being on Cantonica also meant that he was cut off from the HoloNet. Not that the planet didn’t have access to the galaxy’s biggest news resource—on the contrary, Canto City was privileged to have one of the Canto system’s fastest connections—but Armitage simply avoided listening to any of it. He was no longer part of that life: it no longer mattered.

The sun slowly set over the horizon, turning the sky a violent orange and electric purple, and the SE8 droid returned to inquire if he needed anything else. 

“No, thank you,” He said, yawning. Then something seized him, and he held up a hand before the droid could leave.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell me,” Armitage began. “What has the political state of the galaxy been like in the past year?” 

If the droid thought his question peculiar, it wasn’t programmed to say so. “Well sir, the galaxy is currently under Republic rule, following the fall of the late Supreme Leader and Emperor of the First Order.”

Armitage sat up. “The _late_ Supreme Leader, you say?"

The droid didn’t blink. (It couldn’t, anyway.) “Yes, sir. Supreme Leader Kylo Ren of the First Order, given name Ben Solo, son of Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan and Han Solo of Corellia. Born in 5 ABY on Chandrila, died 35 ABY following the final battle of the First Order-Resistance war on—” 

“That’s all, thank you,” Armitage cut the droid off, his head suddenly spinning. It nodded and left, oblivious to the blow it had just dealt him. 

So Ben was dead, then. Was the scavenger Rey dead too? What about Pryde? Quinn? Armitage leaned back in his chair, now unable to stop himself from pondering the state of the galaxy. A galaxy without Kylo Ren. A galaxy without the First Order. 

Interesting _._ He supposed he could live with that. He’d won, didn’t he? Kylo Ren lost. The details didn’t matter. 

Before he could ponder any further, there was a sudden shriek in Cantonican from another bar patron. Curious, he turned his gaze from the now-black sea and looked to the source of the commotion. 

A female Caskadag was pointing towards something on her left. Armitage followed her finger to see a flash of ginger with four legs running across the sand—headed straight in his direction! 

Whatever the creature was, it slowed to a trot once it neared him. Perhaps it’d been startled by the female Caskadag: after all, they were infamous for their piercing cries. Compared to her, Armitage was minding his own business and being quiet. It made sense for the creature to prefer his side. 

The animal was nearer now, and it stopped by his deck chair. It reminded him of a loth-cat, only smaller and furrier. And more orange. The creature let out a meow typical of its species and began rubbing its head against his chair. 

“Hello there,” He said, feeling a bit silly talking to an animal. 

The cat meowed again, this time hopping daintily onto the chair and scattering sand across his legs. He extended a hand out. It let out a rumble, then leaned forward to sniff his hand. A moment later, it rubbed the side of its head against the back of his fingers. 

He smiled down at it. “Would you like some food? Fish, perhaps?” 

The cat seemed to understand what ‘food’ meant. It meowed louder, butting its head against the flat of his palm. Armitage stood up and stretched. “Well come on, then.” 

He left a few credits on the table and left. The cat followed next to him, its tail bobbing in the air. Armitage considered his furry companion as the two strolled down the beach back to his house, and decided that he would give her a name: Millicent. 

There was no particular reason why, but the name brought to mind the image of a smiley young woman with flour on her clothes and freckles on her cheeks. She, like Armitage, had ginger hair and blue eyes. 

No particular reason why, really.

“Millicent,” He said aloud, and the cat looked up at him before letting out another demanding _meow._

"Alright, alright."

Call it a hunch—or rather, a feeling—but Armitage sensed that this was the beginning of a great friendship...and the continuation of an even greater life. 


End file.
